


Run Over

by whaleofatime



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: 30 day prompt, M/M, Rockstar AU, bassist, ends just fine, starts unrequited, writer lavi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaleofatime/pseuds/whaleofatime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanda's a rockstar, and Lavi's been a groupie since before he even realised it himself. It takes a while, but despite being a lost cause right from the start, Lavi eventually manages to win over the world's most bafflingly cool bassist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Over

Love is a difficult thing, isn’t it? It’s almost as hard as taking an exam in Greek when you’ve never even heard the language. You might get higher marks on the exam for love, but all in all your comprehension’s probably worse. At least feta is definitely cheese. What’s fondness?

 

What’s the driving force behind forcing your way into leather jeans a size too small that you spent too much money on?

 

Lavi sure as fuck doesn’t know, isn’t convinced it’s not some sort of side-effect of a hallucinogenic he keeps accidentally ingesting without his knowledge, doesn’t comprehend the workings of the human mind, but he still keeps forcing forcing forcing till he’s breathless in shiny black leather, waistband digging into hip bones that sure don’t have much give.

 

He surveys himself in the mirror. He whistles. He looks mighty grand.

 

He looks again, and groans, feeling a red creeping blush crawl up his neck. He’s getting ready to go for a date, sortof. He’d washed and conditioned his hair yesterday, and now the red hair hangs and frames his face, and it’s soft and bouncy and he likes the gentle coconut smell (his surprise for himself). He’s even put on his nicest eyepatch! Not the square breathable cotton medical one, but even more black leather. It’ll sweat and it’ll make the scar itch as hell, but he’d wanted to look presentable. To top off the ensemble is a sleeveless shirt with his favourite band’s emblem on, torn fashionably at the sides. He’d decided against wearing a hat, because hats made him feel like his brain is overheating.

 

Slightly heeled boots with the tips curving ever so slightly upwards wait for him by the front door, and Lavi takes a deep, steadying breath.

 

He’s better than this, he’s pretty sure. He’s a best-selling author during the day. It’s just that come night, he uses his anoniminity and incredibly young-looking face to get dolled up and go out to see his faaaaaaaavourite young man any chance he gets.

 

Rrrrrrrrrrr Lavi rubs at the goosebumps that race up his arms. Thinking about one Kanda Yuu is the best way to get him so far off centre he happily loses all bearing (on reality).

 

Some eyeliner to make his green eye look even more startlingly green, he puts in his lip piercing, and breathes warm breath on the cold metal to heat it up.

 

Ready or not, baby, here I desperately come.

 

-

 

Lavi loves books. He loves ‘em so much they are more constant bedmates than any human being has ever managed to become. They cover every inch of his nice apartment, and he writes and publishes a new one every six months or so. Sometimes it’s a bodice-ripper, sometimes it’s an Introduction to Simple Arabic, sometimes it’s a textbook on anatomy. He knows things, and he loves knowing things. He likes the service knowledge provides him, as well as the company. It’s easy and simple and clean and leaves him warm and fuzzy inside.

 

This thing with Kanda Yuu, though, it sucks him in, spins him around, spits him right out again with a snarl as he gets to his wobbly hands and knees, _begging_ to be admitted into the spin cycle again.

 

Good-natured happy-go-lucky Lavi the intelligent author, he’s not sure where that personality’s gone when he’s got a crush of humanity smashing him against the barrier, making it hard to breathe when he looks up on stage at the man who is, the goddamn love of his life.

 

Kanda Yuu, rockstar extraordinaire. It physically hurts to be this close to the man, maybe 20 feet away, when Kanda's topless and his skin’s glowing from the strong backlight and he’s playing bass like it’s the only thing that stands between him and dying.

 

The man's tattoo, black whorls and curious characters radiating from his heart, Lavi's dreamed he’s licked it a thousand times. He groans when his growing arousal is pressed against the cold metal of the barrier, groans louder because he knows everyone screaming around him will cover his voice. It’s unbearable, it’s delicious, it’s fucking love (he doubts it every time, then he comes to know it every time the band swings back to do a performance in the capital).

 

Most of the fans gravitated towards the boyish, enigmatic European lead singer or the ferocious Chinese lady guitarist with the cutest smile and riffs that slice up the fingers of amateurs that try ‘em. Lavi sees the appeal, he really does, they’re both tremendously attractive and tremendously talented, but something about the bass….

 

It’s History in music form. The drums run up a revolution, the vocals call out the end of empires, the lead guitar is the sound of war, but the bass is constantly there, boosting things, carrying them along and giving them depth without anyone really noticing it. There’d be a gaping hole without it, and the proof that Kanda’s silently keeping them alive is that they are, alive.

 

He’s almost painfully hard. He knows the words to their songs, to all their songs, but he doesn’t holler them out. It’s not the words he’s got this desperate infatuation for, so he just hums whole-heartedly to the deep reverberations of the bass, slight oxygen deprivation helping him along in the wicked fantasy he indulges every time he sees Kanda.

 

Lavi isn’t usually one for idol worshipping (and that is exactly what this is, amongst other things), but rock bands sell dreams and he’d been suckered into buying one. They’d started out playing in bars, and one of the bars they frequented was also one of Lavi’s haunts. He loved being a little drunk somewhere noisy, tapping away a story on his phone, mind not quite all there.

 

On one serendipitous night, he’d been at the bar, nursing a vodka and coke while waiting for the live band to start (he doesn’t keep track of names, because while all of them might be really spirited, most of them are remarkably awful) when the seat next to his is taken up by a topless man with long dark hair tied back into a silky ponytail.

 

The man tried to catch the barman’s attention, before patting himself down and realizing that between his bare abdomen and skin-tight trousers, there’s not really a place to keep his wallet. The play of emotions on the man’s face, looking so regal while disgruntled and shirtless, it hits Lavi where it hurts.

 

“I’ll get what you want, mister, since you’re m’seat mate for the moment,” Lavi had offered smoothly, putting away his phone (he’s finished the chapter introducing the girl dragon hero already, anyways), smiling brightly when a face that had been gorgeous in profile turned to look at him (and proved to be even better-looking head on) and judge him.

 

Lavi had been happily unself-conscious, even if he was dressed like the Professor Emeritus with 50% more corduroy than needed in a bar that leaned more towards the rockier side of things (he can’t help that he gets cold so easily!).

 

The stare was long, cool and blue, before it was ended by a curt nod and an order for Sex on the Beach.

 

Thinking back on it, Lavi’s pretty sure he was a goner as soon as Kanda had sat next to him all those years ago. The band had played decently, he and Kanda had made out to a disgusting extent in the alleyway out back (he gets a stirring down under every time he walks down it still, remembering the hot breaths and dirty promises Kanda had made while rutting, as well as the fervent, bursting-with-affection confessions of helpless fondness he’d made against the salty sweat-tinged skin of Kanda’s neck), and then they just left to head home.

 

The bar was home to their weird flirting a few more times, and every time Kanda would wait to be paid for, because shirts are not a currency he dealt in and Lavi was always too amused to complain.

 

He’d meant to confess after a month of accidental meetings, or at least propose something more lasting, even ask for just a good ol’ fashioned e-mail address, but suddenly they never showed up at the bar ever again. Lavi had needed to get a little drunk once he realized they were effectively untraceable, being small and possessing a name he’d never bothered to remember.

 

Then the band had hit it big, managing to make music that people identified with so hard every listen felt like a comforting whisper from a friend, and now Lavi’s just left to fawn from afar in too-tight leather and too-hot affection.

 

Thank whoever listening’s that Kanda doesn’t have any solos; it’s self-induced torture, Lavi understands it well enough, but he’d much rather not come in his pants and make his ‘o’ face right here, right now, if possible.

 

(If he squeezes his eye shut then he’d lose this godly view, after all.)

 

He’s driven almost to tears by the end. Same ol’, same ol’.

 

One day, Lavi thinks, as he sits on the bus and tries not to wince at how rubbed raw his hips are, I’m going to write a dedication to him on the raunchiest gay boxers-ripper I’ve ever written. Maybe a hidden code slid into it, like meet me at the bar again shirtless and beautiful and beloved, let’s do that, again again again.

 

-

 

He does, do it. It takes a couple of years, and he writes it under a pseudonym, but the way the characters are portrayed aren’t subtle about what Lavi’s hinting at. If Kanda had the slightest memory of him, and wasn’t averse to reading books of that nature, then, well.

 

Well.

 

(It worked.)

 

Another concert, more too-tight pants, more faintly religious experiences, and then when time came to end his arm gets snagged by a big, bulky man who says there’s someone backstage waiting for him.

 

(Lavi does dirty his pants, but stains don’t show from the inside of leathers, thank _fuck_.)

 

He’s lead to a room, empty but for a stack of crates and a mini-fridge stuffed full of cola and booze, and Kanda in just a pair of shorts, sprawled on top of the crates with his bass nestled intimately against him.

 

The face that was amazing in profile, incredible face-on, is fucking _unbearable_ a few years older. The blue eyes are alight with recognisation, and Lavi burns to know what calloused fingers would feel like rubbing him all over.

 

“Tch. Took your fucking time, didn’t you? Shut the goddamn door behind you, I owe you a drink.”

 

Years of an itching scar because of leather eyepatches and a sort of desperate passion that eclipsed any hope for a normal relationship is vindicated, and Lavi’s sure it makes him weird, and he’s sure it makes Kanda weird to still remember him, but holy fuck he could write a thousand books on how it feels like to be tugged closer by this magical creature via strong fingers hooking into the lack of slack in his waistband, knuckles digging lightly into raw skin.

 

(Much, much later on, he gets started on the first one.)

**Author's Note:**

> SUMMARIES ARE REALLY HARD TO WRITE. Especially to a story that's plotless and kinda weird and mostly an excuse for me to have them topless a lot. Still, though. It was fun, writing about leather and the weird devotion people have for music and other people.


End file.
